


Pull My Strings

by CatLovePower



Category: Green Room (2015)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Original Character(s), POV Original Character, Post-Movie(s), Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-18
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-09 13:23:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7803613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatLovePower/pseuds/CatLovePower
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-movie. Pat is still playing music and his new band is protective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

There must be thirty persons in a too-small apartment, but for some reason, it doesn’t feel crowded. People are drinking and talking, sprawled on couches or sitting on the floor; someone is playing something on a badly-tuned guitar; laughter fuses. There are at least two different bands, some girl/boyfriends, groupies and whatnot.

Sitting in a battered armchair is the bassist of the band which was singing – shouting – earlier in the bar down the street. He is frowning at the empty beer bottle in his hand, as if he is seeing it for the first time. Maybe wondering if someone would bring him a fresh one if he looks pathetic enough for a long time. There is something off about him, and not just the tired eyes or the soft, sad face, old beyond his years.

A blond guy leans close, whispers (at least he tries to, but fails because of the music), “You want to go?” The bassist shakes his head. A light shoulder squeeze, and the blond is gone, disappearing into the kitchen. Maybe he finds the animation somewhat comforting, maybe he needs to be anonymous to unwind after the show.

That’s it. His arm. He was wearing long sleeves on stage – if you could call the back of a dive bar a stage – a bassist playing left-handed. But now his sleeve had slipped up, revealing a gnarly collection of scars that belonged to a horror movie. Thin, broken lines of pinkish flesh, puffy and taut, encircle his forearm, all the way up to his elbow. The hand looks alien, slightly too big and stiff, as if it weren’t his; one could only wonder what could mangle a limb that badly. It looks nauseating, a sick work of art on a kid’s flesh. That’s why he was playing left-handed.

A group of girls sit down on the carpet next to the armchair, loud and talkative, probably underage. They giggle, throwing sideway glances to the bassist, who doesn’t seem to appreciate the attention. Snippets of conversation rise above the music. “Ask him!” “You do it!” More giggles.

Like a knight in shining armor, the blond guy comes back with two beers and put one in the bassist’s hand, who looks like a kicked puppy. He’s the guitarist of the band; unshaven and scruffy looking, but he has kind eyes. He sits protectively close, asking about the song that’s playing in the other room, actively creating a barrier of inane conversation.

But one of the girls is bolder than the other ones, she turns and asks, “Like, what happened to your arm, dude?”

“And what happened to your face?” the blond guitarist asks in return, with a sneer.

The girl gets angry and storms off, muttering that “it looks gross anyway.”

“They shouldn’t ask that.”

“It’s okay…” the bassist starts, his voice soft and calm, but his face tells another story. He looks as if he is about to get sick, eyes glazed over, brow covered in a fine sheen of sweat.

 “It’s not. Let’s go.”

The bassist seems conflicted for a moment; a hasty retreat would be an admission of weakness, but he’s clearly unwell. The music is loud, and all eyes are on him when he shakily makes his way to the kitchen.

His guitarist begins arguing with a short guy who clearly had too much to drink. Their drummer, who doesn’t want to go.

And then someone says, “Imagine you’re on a desert island, which band…” and you could hear dry retching from the kitchen.


	2. Two

I never really understood Josh's passion for Pat. I say passion, but it's not sexual or anything - at least I don't think so, but what do I know, I'm just the drummer after all.   
  
Josh is our singer. Let's just say he screams more than he sings, but his energy on stage is absolutely crazy, like a wild thing, unleashed for a moment only. We play post-punk, whatever that is. Punk is dead or so they say. With Josh it's very much alive and kicking.  
  
The rest of the time, he's a mellow guy, and maybe that's why he likes Pat so much. If it feels like I'm talking about a stray we rescued, well... It's not that far off. Pat is broken. Physically, maybe mentally too. I don't know all the details, I just amaze at how well he can still play with a fucked up arm. All torn up and sown back together.   
  
There are rumors, but not one of us dares speaking about that in front of Josh and Pat. Punk is dead, the past is dead, who cares... We're alive and music is playing from the corner of the room. Something Australian, growly, with a weird accent, good tunes. Shane must have put the record on. He was a decent guitar player but he had some strange tastes in music sometimes.  
  
I make it sound like we're all living together like some hippies, but I do rent a flat of my own. A room, above an aunt's garage, more precisely.  
  
The night is still young. Shane is already drunk - he's a pleasant drunk, though. He gets all flushed and occasionally confesses his love to random household appliances. Vinyl records too.   
  
Josh is hugging a guitar, and he tunelessly pulling the same cords, with no rhythm or purpose. He does that sometimes when he's waddling deep in thoughts that he doesn't want to share.  
  
Uncharacteristically, it’s Pat who breaks the comfortable – albeit musically chaotic – silence.

"I should never have told you,” he says, and you can see in his dark eyes that he’s not totally there. And there are untold things behind this innocuous sentence. Stupid shit like, _I should never have been part of a band again, not after_... Self-loathing shrouds him like a dark cloud that never really goes away.  
  
"You play good music, man." Josh’s gaze is on Pat, sincere and loving. Like a brother, maybe something else too. If Pat had turned his head, he would have seen no pity in his band mate’s eyes.  
  
"You're cute but we all know that's not true," Shane piped up from the other side of the room.  
  
"I used to." _Before._ Again with his untold shit. And he can't snap out of it. It doesn't work that way.  
  
"At least stop wallowing in self pity,” Shane tries. I want to tell him to shut up, but Josh answers before I can.  
  
"Easier said than done,” Josh appeases him.

I know that he doesn’t want them to go down that road again. He doesn’t want Pat to unravel once again while he tells his haunting tell of hound dogs, combat boots, sharp things and mangled bones. I know all that because I’m a good listener, even though the story wasn’t meant for me. I just happened to be there that day. The sobs were the worst part.

And then just like that, the power goes out. A second later, a lightning bolt cracks the sky open outside the window. It illuminates the whole room for one second of searing blindness and then nothing. There is a crash from Shane’s corner, and I know he went ass over head when he tried to stand up. I also know that if there were light, I would have seen Pat flinch and huddle up in his seat.

Josh flicks a lighter and the shadows retreat in the corners, menacing, but kept at bay for a moment. Pat’s eyes are two pools of anguish with flames dancing in them.

“Don’t say it,” he whispers, more to himself than anything.

“I won’t,” Josh says. There are secrets here, things even I wasn’t privy to.

Shane starts giggling from the floor – indicating that he’s fine, even though no one was really worrying. He giggles because Josh is hugging Pat. Tight. It’s true that they look silly, embraced like that, the lighter still in an extended hand, the other one gripping a shoulder as if everything depended on it. Maybe it does.

“You two should get a room,” I say, with a smile.

Josh shrugs and says to no one in particular, “Go check the fuses, you dumbasses.”


End file.
